


Promotion

by Highly_Illogical



Series: A Whole New World [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chess, Chess Metaphors, M/M, Pre-Slash, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 06:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11846292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: And so it is that one particularly boring, rainy day, Percival unearths his old chessboard and decides it’s high time to introduce Credence to wizard’s chess.It’s a spectacularly bad idea.Or is it?





	Promotion

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand this has officially grown into a series. I'm in way over my head. Enjoy!

There’s more to being a wizard than just casting spells, even if Credence seems to be quite happy doing nothing else these days. Belonging to the wizarding world lies in the little things as much as in the great ones, and Percival is trying his hardest to give him both.

He supplies his frantic remedial reading with childhood classics that should have been read to him at bedtime long ago, and not once does Credence take his questionable choice of material as an insult to his intelligence, instead treating the wholesome little tales with the same reverence as his Bible.

They ponder at length about what House he would have been in if he’d had the luxury of a normal wizard’s childhood. Their conclusion is either Horned Serpent, because no one else would take such delight in soaking up knowledge like a sponge every waking minute of every day, or Wampus, because no one but a true warrior could endure what Credence has been through and live to tell the tale. The boy seems more inclined towards the latter, but Percival has the sneaking suspicion that it’s because it was his own House in his youth.

He brings him home some wizarding sweets to sample, and Credence just stares uncomprehendingly at the garish packaging.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks meekly once he’s been told what’s inside.

“There’s no occasion, you just haven’t lived until you’ve tried these.”

“B-but what have I done to deserve it?”

Percival feels like punching a wall at that, but he takes a couple of deep, calming breaths, lest Credence think his anger is directed at him, and he feels marginally better. It turns out that Credence is quite fond of chocolate, if you manage to convince him that eating it isn’t criminal.

And so it is that one particularly boring, rainy day, Percival unearths his old chessboard and decides it’s high time to introduce Credence to wizard’s chess.

It’s a spectacularly bad idea.

The boy has never played chess the No-Maj way before, which Percival should have expected, but more than that, he blinks owlishly at the prospect of playing any game at all. Anything remotely entertaining must have been considered a sinful waste of time in that sorry excuse for a house, except for some childish little things Credence has slipped up and told him about, like his adopted sister’s twisted idea of hopscotch, and it takes him a moment to accept that yes, grown adults _can_ play, thank you very much.

One hurdle cleared, about a million more to go.

Percival begins talking him through the basics, and suddenly, it all goes downhill.

Credence does something he’s rarely done before: he actually interrupts Percival before his explanation can build up steam, and for all that the older man likes commanding respect, he’s glad, for about half a second, that the boy is finding his voice.

But then he catches on to what he’s saying, and it’s an endless litany of: “These rules are too complicated, Mr. Graves, I’ll never learn them, don’t waste your time trying to teach me,” and his hunched form is blurring dangerously at the edges.

“Credence, please. I am _not_ wasting my time, do you hear? I’m doing this because I want to, and because I believe you can learn, whatever you’ve been told to believe about yourself. And if you can’t, or even if it just turns out you don’t like the game and you never want to see a chessboard again, we’ll call it a day and I won’t think any less of you, all right? There are plenty of perfectly capable wizards who can’t play to save their lives.”

Credence looks up with uncertainty written plainly across his features, but blessedly solid. Crisis averted. Percival isn’t sure which part of his clumsy attempt to talk him down did the trick, but he’s too busy cursing that woman’s memory to care. Why does he think so little of himself that he believes he won’t even memorize the names and moves of a handful of chess pieces? How many times must he have been fed lies about being stupid and useless to fail to see his potential so completely?

“Credence,” he begins, almost wincing at how harsh it came out, but the boy perks up, his face attentive. Perhaps he responds better to this than to the softness Percival has been forcing himself into, actively reminding himself at every turn that his unlikely houseguest is not a new Auror recruit to be brought to task.

“Ever since I took you in, you have been doing _nothing but_ learning. If I didn’t know the reasons behind it, it would be alarming, to be honest. You’ve thrown yourself into learning magic so completely that I have to remind you to feed yourself some days. And believe me when I say that you’ve already learnt things that are much, much more difficult than the basics of chess.”

“I… I have?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

They both know the answer to that—that Credence has already had enough lies for a lifetime or two, and Percival has sworn not to add to them.

So the boy shakes his head, so minutely you could almost miss it, and Percival ploughs on: “And besides, chess takes two to play, I haven’t had a decent match in too long, and there’s no one I’d rather play with than you.”

That is… as close to a confession as he dares, but the boy seems entirely oblivious, and he isn’t sure whether to call that a blessing or a curse. Perhaps it’s for the best if Credence never realizes that his thoughts have been taking a less than appropriate direction.

There’s something oddly defiant in Credence’s eyes as he learns that he can, in fact, keep his bishops and knights straight, and Percival wishes idly for a camera to preserve that look forever, but their troubles aren’t over.

For one thing, Percival thought it would do him a world of good to learn an activity in which he has to make his own decisions, and the good ones are rewarded, while the bad ones are no tragedy, because at the end of the day, it’s just a game; but that, as it turns out, is a miscalculation of legendary proportions.

Credence is _terrified_.

At every move, his voice wavers with hesitation, and the thought occurs to Percival that perhaps he should have purchased a non-magical set for the occasion, of the kind where you just had to pick up your pieces and move them without saying a word, because the boy openly dislikes telling even an enchanted pawn what to do, and a slight tremble in his plush lips spells out what he isn’t saying— _who_ _am I to take command?_

And what’s worse, Percival’s old set relishes in his obvious lack of firmness, complaining loudly about his inevitable rookie mistakes and bombarding him with conflicting advice that has him screwing his eyes shut, momentarily overwhelmed. His knights, in particular, have taken to acting like literal horses, the cheeky little bastards, sensing his fear and refusing to do as they’re told until his “Knight to C6” comes out in more than the softest whisper.

But it’s with the first casualties that Percival really starts to question the wisdom of teaching him chess at all. For all the times that Credence has been told that it’s primarily a game of strategy, he has almost no concept of necessary sacrifices, and takes the loss of a piece as a personal failure that sends him spiraling down dangerous paths involving self-deprecating mutters of ‘idiot’ and ‘shouldn’t have done that’.

And most importantly, the boy is too soft. He has to be reminded that taking Percival’s pieces is, in fact, a good thing, because the first time he has the chance to do so, he stares at the board in dismay as if he’d just killed a living creature and dissolves into a stream of apologies.

Eventually, Credence makes peace with the fact that a piece that has been dragged off the board is not dead and will be perfectly fine next time, and setting aside a little time for chess becomes a sort of ritual.

Percival will come home from work, change out of his impeccable suit, and unfailingly find Credence setting up the board almost absent-mindedly as he chatters about his steady progress and peppers him with questions about the things he needs a little more help understanding. It’s the most uninterrupted talking Credence does all day, and Percival happily lets it flow, getting the strong impression of a dam that has finally broken. There is so much he has never been allowed to say.

After a few games, he notices that the boy always lets him have the white pieces—to get out of the ungrateful task of making the first move or out of some misguided notion that black suits him better, Percival isn’t sure, but as long as it makes him happy, Percival will play white until the end of his days.

Little by little, as the occasions present themselves, Percival talks him through such concepts as castling and _en passant_ , and Credence assimilates them with no more than an earnest nod—until one day, his reaction to a new and more complex rule throws Percival for a loop.

Credence had been vaguely aware of the idea of promotion, and frankly, after succeeding in turning a snail into a teapot with no residual slime involved, the thought of a pawn becoming a queen should not have shaken him.

But the day comes when one of his pawns makes it to the eighth rank unscathed, and Credence just stares as if he’s just had a revelation. He picks it up between his fingers the No-Maj way, seemingly unaware of its squirming and feeble, squeaky protests of “Let go of me!”, and his mind is suddenly a million miles away.

“Credence? Is something wrong?”

“It’s like me,” he says, and though his voice is soft, his meaning booms in the silence when Percival finally understands what he’s getting at.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you compared yourself to a chess piece,” he chuckles. He won’t pretend he doesn’t know what Credence means by it, but he wants to hear him explain it in his own words. It sounds like the sort of thing he has to work through by himself.

“This little piece… is like me,” he says a little louder, drunk on his newfound confidence, in the giddy tone he usually reserves for mastering a new spell. “It’s small, and unimportant, and it’s not that bad if you lose it, but if it makes it through… it becomes something else. Something better.”

They both stop caring about the result of the match after that. Whether Credence wins or loses, he has just given his past the best kind of checkmate there is, and that counts as a victory.

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I always write about stuff I barely know? Honestly, I know so little about chess that writing an actual, realistic match is beyond me, and yet this was in my head and refused to get out. I hope you liked it (and didn't find it too outrageous if you do play chess)!


End file.
